


La Vie En Rouge

by rubberbutton



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Time, I never know what to put in the tags, M/M, Post-Finale, normal amounts of murder, show equivalent violence, true luuuuuurve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 02:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5073982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbutton/pseuds/rubberbutton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, Hannibal disappeared. Will has spent two years waiting for him.</p><p>  <i>"So you have to decide what you want, Dr. Lecter. Do you want me in half-measures? Do you want only the parts you can take? Or do you want all of me?" </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	La Vie En Rouge

**Author's Note:**

> So many, many thanks to [Kayla](http://221bringyourgun.tumblr.com/) for her excellent betaing help.

A cabin somewhere in Wyoming. It's early October, gray and relentless. The rime of frost and dirt crunches under Will's boot heels. It's just before dusk, and the Bighorn Mountains are indigo and violet on the horizon, cutting through a red sky behind them. Will's jacket had been warm enough during the day, but now the wind cuts through it as the sweat from the day's exertions cools. He crests the last hill, and his cabin comes into view. 

A car he doesn't recognize is parked in the gravel drive. It looks newish, mid-range. Probably a rental. It doesn't have government plates, so it’s not the FBI. 

And there's only one other person he's expecting. 

\-----

The lights are on as he lets himself into the house. He takes his time hanging his jacket on the hook beside the door and kicking the dirt from his boots. 

Hannibal Lecter sits at the kitchen table, looking wildly out of place against the worn linoleum and shabby wallpaper. Will has imagined this moment a thousand times, imagined the horror and excitement. But now that it's come, all he feels is vague embarrassment. There are dirty dishes stacked in the sink. He hasn't showered in two -- or three? -- days, and he's aware of his own sharp body odor. He can only imagine how bad he smells to Hannibal. 

"Good evening, Will. I do hope you don't mind me dropping in on you," Hannibal says, and the words pour over Will like honey. "I took the liberty of making some tea." He raises a mug and indicates the kettle on the stove. 

"The tea was here when I moved in," Will says.

Hannibal gives a small _moue_ of displeasure. "Ah. That explains the taste." He sets the mug down and gestures to the chair across from him. "Do sit down, Will. I'd say that I don't bite, but ..." He trails off with a little shrug. 

Will sits, bracing his elbows against the table. "They keep tabs on me, you know."

"Is that a threat or a warning?" 

"I don't know," Will says. "Maybe both."

"Fair enough, I suppose. You needn't worry on my behalf. I have years of experience at evading law enforcement."

"Are you here to kill me?" Will says, his voice soft, nearly monotone.

"You're not worried, are you?" Hannibal asks, eyebrow raised.

"Just curious," Will replies, which is the truth.

Hannibal gives a small smile. "I see. No, it is not my intention to kill you."

"Then why are you here?"

Hannibal's expression grows offended and a little sad. He reaches out and lays slender fingers over Will's wrist. "I missed you. Very much so."

Hannibal has elegant hands, the fingers long and tapered, the fingernails neatly trimmed. Will knows just what those hands are capable of. 

"I missed you, too," he says hoarsely, and Hannibal's grip tightens. "But it's been two years, why find me now?"

Hannibal lets go and sits back. "I wanted to come sooner. I had some business to attend to. And as incompetent as the FBI is, I did have to take a few precautions. But I have thought of you every day we have been apart."

"And I, you," Will says, and Hannibal smiles again. There is a long silence in which Will can think of nothing to say, though it is clear that Hannibal is expecting more. "Can I get you anything? I've got cheap beer and ... water."

"No, thank you."

"I'm sorry the place is a mess -- I'm a mess, too." Will stands and goes to the fridge for beer. He twists the cap off and worries it between his fingers, turning it over and over and over. 

"Not at all. I understand completely. And I do apologize for arriving unannounced; you weren't expecting guests."

"I've been expecting you, though. I've been waiting for you." Will leans against the kitchen counter, the Formica edge digging into his hip.

Hannibal's brow arches. "Even though you chose to hide yourself away in the middle of this god-forsaken state?"

"It would take more than that to hide from you. I moved here to avoid the world, not you."

"Hmmm," Hannibal says. "You shouldn't be hiding from the world. You need to take your place in it. Have you forgotten all my lessons?"

Will takes a long swig of the beer; it's nearly tasteless. "No. I remember. You saw who I really was. You made me see who I really was."

Hannibal comes to his feet. The kitchen is small and just by standing he is in Will's personal space. Will can smell the musk-spice scent of his aftershave as Hannibal braces a hand against the counter and leans in. 

"Good," he murmured into Will's ear. "You are my greatest achievement. My glory." He leans back and cocks his head to the side to observe Will. "Come, you've had quite a shock seeing me. Let me draw you a bath."

"That bad, huh?"

"Your aroma is quite intense. But I understand that's typical for mountain men," Hannibal says with a wry expression. 

Beer in hand, Will follows Hannibal to the bathroom, watching as he fusses with the drain stopper and the water temperature. The enamel is worn, leaving the bottom of the tub permanently grayish. A small window above the toilet looks out over the back of the property. It's almost dark now. 

Hannibal sits on the side of the tub, his sleeves rolled up. He picks up a shampoo bottle and examines it with obvious distaste. 

"Don't judge my shampoo," Will says, leaning against the door frame. "I got it at the dollar store -- so it was in my price range, now that I'm no longer on the FBI payroll."

"This must be so harsh on the hair. I brought my own toiletries. Let me go get them for you."

"That's really not necessary. Seriously. Hannibal. _Seriously_." But Hannibal is already brushing past him, returning quickly with a leather bag. He produces several bottles, lining them up on the tub, and discretely deposits Will's products in the trash. 

He turns the water off and stands. He stops in the doorway across from Will. He grazes the back of his knuckles against Will's cheek. "Your skin looks dry. You should take more care. This climate is so cruel." His gaze travels slowly down the length of Will's body and returns to his face. 

"Uh huh, thanks. Now, unless you're going to stay and wash my back--" Will gestures toward the door.  

"If you require," Hannibal says with an almost imperceptible smirk. 

Will shuts the door in Hannibal's face. He takes his time in the bath, letting the hot water loosen grime that had started to feel permanent. He hasn’t seen Hannibal since that night, the night they killed Dolarhyde. Reflecting back now, he is not sure what is nightmare and what is memory, like pieces of a shattered mirror reflecting back his broken psyche. Hannibal’s voice in his ear. Waking on the beach, sunlight just beginning to bleed along the eastern horizon. The surprise and disappointment of finding himself alive, and the abject despair of finding himself alone. 

The first memory he is sure of is waking up in the hospital, the fog of painkillers lifting. He had spent a month in a hospital bed and even longer being "debriefed" by the FBI. Eventually, their investigation had been inconclusive. He'd started working his way west as soon as they'd released him, taking odd job after odd job, until he'd landed here, fifty miles north of Cardinal, Wyoming. 

And he'd been waiting ever since. 

Will soaks for a while and finally emerges feeling a little closer to human. He shaves for good measure, cutting himself with the disposable razor. He realizes he hasn't brought a change of clothes in with him. He can put on his filthy work clothes again, but his skin crawls at the thought. He'll have to brave the four feet from the bathroom to his bedroom in nothing but a towel. He tucks the terry cloth around his waist as tightly as possible, and gathers his dirty clothes up in a wad. 

Hannibal is reading in the living room. It's a volume he brought with him, something leather-bound and scholarly. He looks up.

"Much better, you look nearly civilized."

It's cold outside of the bathroom. Will shivers, his nipples have gone quite pointy. 

"Are you hungry?"

"A bit, yeah. I've got a selection of the finest canned goods. Also some frozen pizza." 

"I actually thought we might go into town. Are there any good restaurants?"

"Nothing Michelin starred, but there's a Dairy Queen."

Hannibal grimaces. "I don't know how you can live out here."

"I'm not used to the finer things," Will says. "There's also a diner, which won't be up to your standards, but I like."

"I'm not as stuffy as you suppose," Hannibal says. "And I'd be only too happy to try the native cuisine." 

\-----

They take Will's old pickup into town, riding in silence mostly. Hannibal makes an occasional remark about the scenery or the weather. Will nods and grunts in response. It has started to rain, the headlights illuminating each drop like a shard of glass. The wind blows hard enough to obscure the highway here and there, and he has to concentrate to keep the truck between the lines. 

He pulls off the highway into the diner's lot. The OPEN sign is on, but there's only one other car parked. 

"Anywhere you like," the waitress says as they enter, and he selects a booth in the corner as far from the other patrons as possible. The whole place smells like a deep fryer.

"A wonder we got a table without a reservation," Hannibal says mildly.

Will half-smiles despite himself and hides it behind the laminated menu. "Not too many people out in this weather."

"Can I get you anything to drink?" the waitress asks. She's wearing an apron over jeans and a t-shirt with the diner's logo -- an anthropomorphic cow with a platter of burgers.

Will orders coffee. Probably a bad idea. He already feels wired; he can't stop his knee from jiggling under the table. 

"Will," Hannibal says, and the sound is enough to make Will sit still and meet his gaze. "You seem agitated."

"I'm fine," Will says, shrugging. 

"I can't help but think our reunion has upset your equilibrium.” It's Hannibal’s best _tell-me-about-your-mother_ tone.  

"Yeah, well, my equilibrium has always been precarious. Don't take it so personal."

"I want you to feel at ease in my presence." 

Will gives a sharp, bitter bark of laughter. "And can you think of any reason in our shared history -- any reason at all -- why I might feel uneasy?" 

The waitress brings their drinks, forestalling Hannibal's reply. 

"Are you ready to order?"

"Yes," Will says. "I'll get the burger, no cheese, no tomato."

"Okay." She turns to Hannibal. "You, sir?"

"The same, please," Hannibal says, without looking at her. She takes their menus and retreats. 

Will yanks a packet of sugar from the condiment caddy, tears it open and dumps it into the coffee, stirring vigorously. He takes a sip and makes a face. 

"Bad?" Hannibal inquires.

"Tastes like they filtered it through an ashtray." He drinks it anyway. 

"In answer to your question, there are a number of reasons for both of us to be cautious. I can understand if you feel that we have unfinished business."

"Is that why you're here? Unfinished business?"

"I would prefer not to do this here," Hannibal says. "Your voice carries, and I would hate to involve any of this fine establishment's patrons or staff." 

Will casts around and can see that the waitress, seemingly busy at the register, has her head cocked with an ear toward them. 

"Fine," he says. He's not sure how many people are in the building, maybe eight or nine with the cook, but he knows Hannibal could kill them all without breaking a sweat, even with Wyoming being a concealed carry state. "We can table this discussion."

"Thank you."

Will takes a long sip of the bitter coffee. "So. What have you been up to since I saw you last?"

"I've traveled quite a bit -- Prague, Vienna, Bern. Pursued my hobbies."

"I can imagine." 

Hannibal smiles at that. "And you?" 

"You know.” Will shrugs. “Did a lot of fishing."

"You must find it very relaxing."

"Yeah. Nobody's fucking with my head. It’s a nice change."

Their burgers arrive, and Will realizes he's actually hungry. It is mildly hilarious watching Hannibal eat a burger. He still manages to do it gracefully, while Will gets ketchup down his shirt, which makes Hannibal smile in what could believably pass for affection. 

Will wolfs his food, finishing well before Hannibal, and pushes his plate away. 

"You were right, Will," Hannibal says. "This is quite good."

"I can't tell if you're being serious or not."

"I'm quite serious, but I find that it's the company, not the seasonings, that give a meal its savor."

"I know you don't believe that's true."

Hannibal smiles. "Well, perhaps not entirely. But the company is what I will remember, not the meal."

They finish eating, and Hannibal throws cash down on the table over Will's protest. 

"Please, allow me. Least I can do for imposing on your hospitality."

The rain has subsided into a drizzle, the fine droplets clinging to each hair like dew. Back in the truck, Will asks, "How long are you planning on staying?"

"That depends on how long I can continue to trespass on your good will. I just wanted to spend time with you. I have felt every day without you as keenly as a knife's blade. You are my better half, Will. I am incomplete without you." 

There is a sharp pain under Will's breastbone, a tightening which makes it difficult to breathe. "You love me."

"Love is too pale to describe the intensity of my feelings for you, but it might be used to describe an equivalent feeling in lesser beings." This is Hannibal at his most reasonable, his most impassively introspective.

"If I am the other half of you, your love is narcissistic. You love me not for myself, but for the reflection of yourself you see in me."

"All love is narcissism and self-interest. Are you so terribly naive as to believe anything else? We love our children because they are our genetic legacy and will continue our influence on the world after our death. We love our mates for the security and affection they afford us. Even your love for your dogs was tainted -- you loved them because they asked nothing of you, and they were incapable of seeing you as you are. They reflected the reality you wished was true."

"I loved Molly," Will says. There is no perceptible change in Hannibal's demeanor or expression, but Will can sense his annoyance. "She was good for me."

"So why aren't you with her now?"

"I wasn't good for her. It was selfish of me to continue the relationship."

"She was one of your dogs," Hannibal observes. 

"Yes," Will allows. "My love degraded her, as yours degrades me."

"How have I degraded you?"

"I have an infinite capacity to forgive you, because I eat your sin, and it becomes my sin. The blood you spill falls on me."

Hannibal's upper lip twitches in a sneer. "You have pretensions of righteousness, but your appetite for violence is as great as my own."

"I don't hunger for innocent lives."

"There is no such thing as an innocent life. Do hunters concern themselves with the guilt or innocence of the deer they kill?"

"Humans are not dumb beasts, and even you would concede that some of us deserve death far more that others."

"God has never seen fit to separate the deserving and undeserving when he metes out ruin. Why should I?" 

Will sighs, focuses on the narrow strip of road illuminated by the truck's headlights. They ride in silence the rest of the way home, though Will can tell that Hannibal wants to say more and is merely waiting for the right moment to take up the argument again.

Will parks outside the house, lagging a step behind Hannibal as they walk up the driveway. He studies the back of Hannibal's neck and the outline of his broad shoulders under the immaculate cut of his coat. Will pulls back his arm and punches Hannibal just below the ribs as hard as he can. Hannibal grunts, caught off-guard. Will presses the advantage, tackling him so that Hannibal takes the brunt of the fall as they hit the ground. 

The ground is saturated, and thick, freezing mud squelches under them as they both scrabble for purchase. Will lands another punch, lacking leverage but still making solid contact with Hannibal's face. But now Hannibal has recovered, and he seizes Will's arm and yanks. Will is suddenly flat on his back, winded and staring at the dark sky. 

Will rolls into Hannibal's grip, bracing his knee against Hannibal's side to give himself room. Hannibal has the advantage of height and years of subduing people in a struggle. Moving with speed that Will can barely track let alone react to, Hannibal catches him and twists Will into a chokehold. Will writhes against that vise-like grip, but can no more free himself than a rat can free itself from a python. 

The world goes fuzzy as he struggles for breath, eyesight tunneling and then fading to blackness. The last things he feels are the cold of the mud under his cheek and the warmth of Hannibal's breath on the back of his neck. 

\-----  
Will quickly regains consciousness, his senses returning to him one by one. He is laid out on his couch, dripping muddy water onto the floor. Hannibal crouches before him, his expression equal parts annoyed and curious. 

"That was a particularly pathetic attempt on my life. May I ask what you think you are playing at?"

Will swallows to clear his mouth of grit and the taste of mud. "I was trying to goad you into killing me."

Hannibal makes a thoughtful _hm_ sound as he considers this. "Yet again you surprise me. Is there any reason beyond the seeming inevitability of your death by my hand?"

"Can I have some water?" 

Hannibal gets him a glass of water, and Will drinks thirstily.

"Thanks." Will sets the glass on the coffee table. "I was curious to see if you were willing to kill me. Apparently, you aren't."

"Or perhaps you failed to give me sufficient provocation. You certainly failed to show any forethought. Weren't you the least bit worried that I _would_ kill you?"

Will shrugs. "I wouldn't have had very long to regret it."

"Indeed," Hannibal says. "But you could have just asked. I've always been honest with you, Will."

Will must have given a little better in the brief fight than he'd thought for Hannibal to be this tetchy. Good. 

"I wanted to confirm my suspicions." Will rakes a hand through his damp hair, pushing it out of his eyes. "We've come to an impasse, Hannibal. Neither of us can maintain the illusion that we can survive being apart for long. But to be together, one of us has to compromise an integral part of his identity -- you would have to curb your destruction or I would have to forsake my moral core. There is no middle path for us. And you are not particularly good at compromise."

"No," Hannibal agrees, his tone even. 

"The fact that you are unwilling to kill me and unwilling to let me go gives me reason to believe that you would at least consider my proposal. I want to be with you."

Hannibal's breath catches, and his pupils dilate as though he has been drugged. 

"I no longer have any interest in boundaries between us, or knowing which of the thoughts rattling around my skull are mine and which of them are yours. I understand you. I want to ... _participate_ in the bloodshed, but," Will stops to let the word sink in, "I want creative control."

Hannibal's expression grows bemused. "Creative control?"

"I want a say in victim selection. I've been considering consulting for law enforcement for awhile. When I do, it'll give me access to the system so I can find the people that keep slipping through. The people who really deserve to die. Those are the people we hunt. Together." 

"No. I'm afraid that is impossible." Hannibal cants his head to the side. "I am very particular. I'm willing to consider the people you select additionally, but not exclusively."

"Okay," Will says, crossing his arms over his chest. "But then you don't get _me_."

Hannibal's eyes glint in the darkness, and Will knows he's thinking of all the ways he could have him -- with or without his consent. The hair on the back of Will's neck stands on end; an electric current of fear and arousal runs down his spine. 

"You can kidnap me, kill me, coerce me. You are more than capable," Will says with a slight shrug. He's only stating the simple truth. "But you want more than my fear or capitulation -- you want more than my _organs_. You want me, heart and soul. And you can't take those by force. You can put me in a box, dope me with psychotropic drugs, subject me to all of your therapies every day for a hundred years, and you would never get to my core. That's something that has to be freely given. I have to have myself, in order to give myself to you." 

Hannibal is listening intently. His breathing is a little fast, but his demeanor is calm. 

"So you have to decide what you want, Dr. Lecter. Do you want me in half-measures? Do you want only the parts you can take? Or do you want all of me?" Will smiles softly. "Take my offer. I'll make it worth your while."

Hannibal's expression is intense and inscrutable. "It is a very tempting offer, Will." 

Will leans forward, bracing an elbow on his knee, as he slowly closes the distance between them. Their faces are scant inches apart. He lays a hand on the lapel of Hannibal's coat, and slides up to loosely clasp the side of his neck. Hannibal's pulse is strong and very fast under his thumb. "You've worked so hard for this. Why hesitate?"

Hannibal leans into Will's hand. "I am suspicious."

"Of me?" Will places a soft kiss on the corner of Hannibal's jaw.  

"I want to believe you, Will. But the faith has been so often broken between us. I carry as much blame for that as you." Hannibal pauses. "I admire that you are a man of principle. But I am wary that your obligations to the law are stronger than the connection between us." 

Will takes Hannibal's face in his hands and pulls him in for a hard kiss. Hannibal is pliable, but does not reciprocate. "Have faith, Hannibal." He kisses him again, softer this time. "I have a plan."

Will stands abruptly and goes to the bedroom, retrieving a large duffle bag from under the bed. He returns and drops it in front of Hannibal's feet, sinking into a crouch to unzip it. He pulls out a manila folder and hands it to Hannibal.

"Who is this?" Hannibal asks, leafing through the photographs in the file. Most of them are shots of one man: a white male in his late thirties, heavy-set, but not fat, and wearing a trucker hat in every shot. 

"Dale Curtis," Will says. He reaches in the duffle and pulls out a large hunting knife; pulls it from its leather sheath.  "I'm going to kill him."

"All right," Hannibal says. He takes a knee next to Will. "The rest of these are your surveillance photographs?" There are pictures of Dale Curtis at the bar, outside of his double-wide trailer, starting a fight in the Walmart parking lot. 

"Yes," Will says.  

"This is very thorough."

"I didn't really need them all," Will says, mildly chagrined. "He owns the property north of here. He lives alone, and it won't be hard to catch him. Mostly I was ... practicing."

"I see." 

"I'm going to kidnap him and take him up to the Bighorn State Park for dispatch and disposal. Figured that would be was the best was to avoid splatter, fibers -- the usual." Will pulls a map of the park out and unfolds it. Several potential disposal spots are circled. "Does that sound okay? I defer to your expertise."

Hannibal looks at the map and digs through the bag, inventorying the rope, duct tape, plastic tarp, Clorox wipes, and a change of clothes. "It's not a bad plan. But perhaps there would be less risk in the long-term if it were made to look like an accident. He does not seem like an individual who takes particular care with gun safety."

"No," Will says, emphatic. "You have to show restraint to make it look like an accident. And I don't intend to show any restraint."

"May I ask what he has done to earn your wrath?"

Will grimaces, looking up to meet Hannibal’s gaze. "He shot my dog." 

\-----

_Will is falling. He can see nothing, hear nothing, but he can feel the emptiness rush past him. He plunges downward for a small eternity, then hits the water so hard that he is stunned by the impact. He drifts, the cold seeps into him, stealing his breath away. He fights his way to the surface, kicking hard, striking out with is arms, but he can't break through, and the water is as black as India ink. Panic rises up, threatens to overwhelm him. He's no longer capable of rational thought, he thinks as beasts think, with no more than instinct and the will to live. His hands and feet are numb and stinging, but his lungs are on fire. He's just thrashing now, like an animal in a snare._

_He can't stop fighting._

\-----

"Will."

Will struggles to the surface of consciousness, still disoriented from sleep and not sure who is talking to him. He's broken a cold sweat and is tangled in the blanket. The fabric sticks to his clammy skin.

"Will, are you all right? You sounded distressed. Were you having a nightmare?" 

Hannibal sits on the edge of his bed. His hand is on Will's shoulder, a reassuring point of warmth. 

"I, uh ..." Will blinks at him blearily. "Yes." 

"Take a deep breath." Hannibal inhales deeply himself, as if modeling the behavior. Will dutifully breathes in, holding it for a moment before breathing out again. Hannibal's hand is slowly rubbing up and down his arm. "Good, Will. That's good. Relax. What were you dreaming about?"

Will swallows, trying to wet his scratchy throat. “I dreamt I was drowning.”

“Dreams about drowning are very common. There is a primal symbolism which appeals to subconscious. Many people interpret it to mean the dreamer feels overwhelmed or is seeking rebirth.” 

“I wouldn’t read too much into it. I once dreamt I was Luke Skywalker.” Will feels steadier as the fear the dream left him with abates. “What do you dream of?”

“Sometimes I dream of my sister,” Hannibal says, then pauses and considers. “I see her as the young woman she never had a chance to become. Isn’t that strange?”

Will pushes himself up into a sitting position. “What was she like?” 

Hannibal is quiet for a long time, and just when Will is beginning to think he won’t answer, he says, “She was not like me.” His expression is soft and inward. “She was very young when she was killed, and she still had the unformed nature of a child. Yet you could still see the outline of remarkable character waiting to be revealed with maturity. She was kind and curious. She could also be very stubborn.”  
“Then she was at least a little like you,” Will says, wryly. 

“Perhaps.” Hannibal smiles sadly. “It’s been nearly thirty-five years since she died. A great chasm stands between us -- thousands of miles and the passage of time. Every second that passes carries me away from her, eroding my memory as the waves erode the shore. There is a painting. Petrus Christus’ _Portrait of a Young Girl_. In my mind’s eye, that image has melded with Mischa. And I’m not sure which of features I remember are hers and which were stolen.” Hannibal draws a deep breath. “As my memory fails her, she dies a second death.” 

“You remember how your sister made you feel.” Will brushes Hannibal’s hair off his forehead, tucking it behind his ear, and his hand comes down to clasp the side of his neck. “And that cannot be taken from you. The seat of emotion lies far below recollection in our brains -- love does not suffer memory’s fallibility.”

“Thank you.” Hannibal turns his head to kiss the palm of Will’s hand. “I have never believed that God acts directly in the lives of mortals, but I may have to reconsider my position on the subject. Your presence in my life is compelling evidence to the contrary.”

Will fights a smile. “You are too charming for my own good, Dr. Lecter.”

“I’m glad to know you think so. I work very hard at it,” Hannibal replies and lays his hand over Will’s on his cheek. "Would you like some coffee? I was just going to make a fresh pot."

"Coffee is always good." 

Will watches from the kitchen table as Hannibal busies himself with the coffee grounds and considers the strangeness of it all. The map of the state park spread out over the table. 

Hannibal hands Will a mug of coffee when it’s ready, taking a seat next to him. "Tell me about your plan," he says, with a gesture at the map. 

Hannibal makes an occasional suggestion as Will talks him through the details, but mostly he listens intently. 

"Is there anyone that knows he killed your dog?" Hannibal asks at the conclusion. "Anyone that knows you have a grudge against him?"

"I haven't told anyone. I doubt he's discussed it with anyone. He's the town bully. Been terrorizing people for years. He's given a lot of people a reason to kill him. I'm not even in the top five."

"Still, if he goes missing at the same time you leave town, it could cast suspicion onto you."

"It's going to take them awhile to notice he's missing. Even longer before they care. He's been in trouble with the law before. Everyone will assume he has decided to skip town. And with a little luck, it'll be years, or even decades, before they find the body."

Hannibal thinks it over and nods slowly. "All right. When would you like to do this?"

"Tonight -- the weather will be good, possibly for the last time in awhile. I assume that works for you?"

Hannibal smiles. "It does, in fact."

\-----

They set out just before ten o'clock, loading up the bed of Will's truck with the supplies. Hannibal is dressed casually -- for him -- in a black turtleneck sweater, dark pants, and hiking boots. Will has dressed in layers, careful to wear clothes he never really liked. 

Will parks at the end of the long drive to Dale Curtis's trailer, which is set back from the gravel road by about five hundred meters. Any closer and Dale might hear them coming. 

There's very little light pollution out here; the Milky Way is a bright ribbon in the sky over head. Will clutches an ether-soaked rag in his hand. He feels calm but weirdly alert, hyper-aware of the gravel under his boots and night breeze lifting the hair off the back of his neck. He glances over to see Hannibal watching him. Hannibal gives him a quick, reassuring smile, and Will smiles back, but he doesn't need the reassurance. 

He has all the assurance he needs. 

Will presses up against the side of the house, so that he'll be out of Dale's immediate line of sight, as Hannibal rings the doorbell. There's noise from inside the trailer, the sound of someone rousing. 

The door swings inward. "What the fuck do you want?" Dale asks. 

"I'm so sorry to disturb you, but my car's broken down," Hannibal says. "And my cell phone doesn't seem to have service here. Is there any way I could use yours to call a tow truck?"

Dale doesn't have a chance to answer, because Will steps in and grabs him, slamming him face-first into the wall and covering his mouth and nose with the rag. Dale struggles, flailing wildly, and dealing Will a glancing blow to the temple. Will grabs Dale's wrist with his free hand, and twists it to lock the elbow, pinioning him against the wall. Dale yelps, taking a deep breath through the rag. 

A few more seconds and he's out, sinking down onto the dirty carpet. Will steps back and looks at the prone body.

"Very nice, Will. Neatly done."

"I learned from the best." 

"Indeed, you did." 

Will binds Dale's hands and feet and duct tapes his mouth before moving the truck and parking it in front of the house. Hannibal has found a suitcase, which he has dutifully filled with Dale's clothes, toothbrush, a few valuables, things which you might take on a trip and whose absence might be noted by investigators. He helps Will roll Dale into a blue tarp, and they lever him into the bed of the truck. 

"Ooof," Will says, struggling to maneuver the dead-weight to be clear of the tailgate. "How'd you manage this by yourself?"

"I always preferred to leave the body _in situ_ for just this reason."

"Next time," Will says and tosses the suitcase of Dale's stuff into the back. 

Hannibal makes a pass of the house, scrubbing surfaces and inspecting for fibers, before he's satisfied. He locks up with Dale's keys and climbs into the cab of the truck, and Will starts the engine. 

"Tomorrow we can pick up his truck and park it at the Amtrak station," Hannibal says. 

"Okay." Will drums his fingers on the steering wheel. It's a two hour drive to Bighorn State Park. "We should have stopped for coffee or something."

Hannibal reaches under the seat and pulls out a large thermos. "Would tea suffice?" 

"I'll take it," Will says and accepts the Styrofoam cup of tea Hannibal pours him. The tea is strong and sweet. "It's good. Is that lavender?" 

"Yes, you have a good palette, Will. I mixed the blend myself."

Will smiles. "I am not surprised." 

"Are you all right, Will? You seem nervous."

Will's grip on the wheel tightens. "I'm a little nervous. Mostly ... excited, I think. Are you ever nervous before?"

"I usually feel excitement, and adrenaline creates a rapid heartbeat. But I'm not nervous. _Exhilaration_ is probably the most apt term."

They fall into silence and, lost in thought, Will is surprised when he sees signs for the turn off for the park. 

"Do you need me to get out the map?"

"No," Will says. "I've got it memorized. I've been there before. I used to take Sadie out hiking on the trail." 

"Sadie?"

"My dead dog."

"This will be a fitting tribute, then."

The entrance gate is chained; the park closed at sunset. Hannibal uses a bolt cutter to cut through one of the links and pushes the gate. It gives a rusty screech as it swings open. When they leave, they will join the links of the severed chain back together with pliers, and on cursory examination it will look as if it had never been cut.

Will has to drive slowly through the park; the road is narrow, steep and winding as it climbs up the side of the mountain, and the moon is hidden by the dense canopy of trees. All he can see is what's illuminated by the high-beams of the truck. Now and then red or yellow eyes peer out at him from the woods. A deer darts in front of the truck, startling him so badly he nearly misses the turn. 

"Steady, Will." Hannibal's voice is a comforting anchor in the dark. 

He turns off the blacktop onto an off-road trail and has to slow the truck to nearly a crawl as its wheels struggle to find purchase. Tree branches scrape the top of the cab. Finally, they break through the tree line, coming out onto a narrow ridge. Will stops the truck and turns off the engine, and then pushes the door open. Hannibal exits, and they meet at the tailgate. It's bright here without the cover of trees, and Will can see Hannibal's face clearly. 

Will reaches for the latch to release the tailgate, but Hannibal catches his arm. 

"Will, wait. I have a gift for you." He holds out a small package, wrapped in a white cloth that feels like raw silk, tied with a ribbon. 

Will unties the knot and unwinds the package to reveal a pocket knife. The slim handle is cool in his hand, the blade glints in the moonlight as he opens it with a satisfying snick. A winding floral border runs down the handle to each edge of the blade.

"It's a 1910 Laguiole. Juniper handle with a six-inch blade. Note the bee motif at the bolster."

Will looks and finds a tiny Art Deco bee right at the top of the blade. "It's very beautiful. Thank you." He runs his thumb across the edge of the blade and a seam of red opens a moment later. He didn't even feel it. 

"The blade is very sharp. I think you'll find it holds an edge well." Hannibal reaches out to brush the backs of his fingers along Will's cheek. "I've had it for nearly thirty years. But I want you to have it. Now seemed like an appropriate time."

"Now I feel bad. I haven't gotten you anything." 

"Will," Hannibal says, quiet and sincere. "You have given me everything."

Will smiles, then reaches and unlatches the tailgate, which swings down with a clang. He grabs hold of Dale's ankle and yanks. Dale slides out of the truck bed and thuds to the ground. He's regained consciousness, moaning softly. Will leans over and yanks the duct tape off his mouth. 

"Will Graham?" Dale says tremulously. "What, what are you doing?"

"Getting justice," Will says. "By taking your miserable life." 

Dale is hyperventilating, sucking in quick noisy breaths. "No, no, look, whatever you want --"

"Shut up," Will barks. "I want my dog back."

"Your dog? Look, man --"

"Her name was Sadie. She was my friend, and you killed her."

"A fucking dog?!" There is a hysterical note in Dale's voice now. "This is over a fucking -- _aaah_!" Will sinks the knife into the meat of Dale's thigh and twists. " _Jesus Christ_."

"Sadie's death is only one of your crimes. You've assaulted, raped, and thieved your way through this town. You're a disease. You're rabid. It falls to me to put you down." Will pulls the knife from Dale's leg, and uses it to cut through the binding at Dale's wrists and ankles. "Get up."

Dale stares up at him in confusion and delicious fear. 

"Get the fuck up," Will says and watches impassively as Dale struggles to rise, his injured leg unsteady under his weight. When he's gained his footing, Will says, "Now run." 

Dale doesn't move. 

Will starts counting. "Ten, nine, eight --" 

Dale moves, hobbling down the embankment, kicking up little falls of shale and dirt. He's heading for the trees, hoping to lose Will in the underbrush. 

Will counts a little louder as Dale gets further away. "Seven. Six. Five. Four. Maybe I shouldn't have injured him so badly," he says as an aside to Hannibal. "He is not making good time. I wanted it to be a calculated risk, but this isn't going to be much of a challenge." 

"It's still good practice," Hannibal says. His shoulder bumps Will's as they watch Dale half run, half slide, disappearing into the tree line. "And I do appreciate your dramatic flair." 

"Three ... two ... one!" Will shouts. "Ready or not, here I come!"

He strolls in the direction Dale disappeared, Hannibal walking along beside him. 

"It is a lovely evening," Hannibal observes. "The stars are very bright tonight. Look." 

Will stops to look up. "I've never spent any time stargazing. I can find the Big Dipper and that's about it. We should go some time."

“It does wonders for one's sense of perspective." 

They grow silent as they reach the trees. Will focuses, reaching into the inner depths of his mind, imagines the workings of Dale Curtis's brain -- and is suddenly buffeted by the panic, fear, pain. He pulls his consciousness back, far enough so that he can examine the emotions and impulses, but not be overwhelmed by them. Look down at them impassively as if they are slides under a microscope. He can visualize the path Dale has taken. There are smears of red to confirm it, but he doesn't need them. 

He walks carefully, in no hurry, trying to make as little noise as possible. Hannibal ghosts along behind him. Will is aware of him, but he is immaterial to the hunt. It is just Will and Dale now. Predator and prey. 

He can hear Dale in the brush ahead as he clumsily makes his way down the mountain. Will hangs back; perhaps Dale will think he has a chance. That he's going to make it. How amusing.

They continue like that for some time -- an hour? Two? Will's not sure how long; time looses its immediacy in his heightened state. Dale is failing, blood loss and fear wearing him down. 

It isn't long now. 

His prey grows quiet, no longer struggling through the underbrush. He's gone to ground, hiding. Hoping to conceal himself if he cannot outrun them. Will grins and slows his pace further, stalking through the trees, considering every step. A dry gully winds down across his path, its course cut by flash floods during heavy rain. A dead tree bridges it, the hallow beneath enough to hide a man. Will walks out across it, the soft, rotten wood spongy beneath his boots. He drops from the log into the gully and seizes Dale, hauling him from his hiding spot in a shower of loose dirt and rocks. 

Dale screams and punches Will, landing a solid blow to the cheek. The pain only feeds Will's bloodlust. He grabs a handful of Dale's hair and slams the back of his head into the ground twice. It's enough to stun Dale, who's still flailing, but ineffectively now. Will presses his advantage, straddles Dale's waist and uses his knees to pin each of Dale's arms. Will sets the point of his knife above Dale's heart and digs in a little, feeling for the space between ribs. Dale is making a low keening sound at the back of his throat.

Will hesitates and then says, "Did you want the heart?"

"I would be satisfied with the liver," Hannibal says, graciously. 

"He's an alcoholic."

Hannibal makes a displeased sound. "Then perhaps none of the filtration organs. He smells like a tobacco user, making the lungs undesirable."

"Better take the heart, then," Will says and lifts his knife.

"This is your moment, Will. It's very considerate of you, but I can make do with whatever's left."

"It's no trouble. I can be accommodating," Will says, shrugging. He stabs the knife into the side of Dale's throat and saws forward, severing jugular vein and windpipe. The arterial spray hits Will's face like a baptism. He watches as it slows, the blood turning frothy as air escapes through the gaping windpipe. 

Will wipes his knife on the hem of Dale's shirt and snaps the blade into the handle. He stands, feeling shaky and euphoric. Hannibal's hand is on his elbow, steadying him. Will pulls Hannibal to him and finds himself laughing. 

"You were incredible, Will," Hannibal says. "I have never loved you more."

Will takes Hannibal's face in his hands and kisses him hard. Hannibal returns the kiss, his mouth opening under Will's, his tongue pushy and demanding. Will grinds against him, needing an outlet for the energy coursing through his veins. He's desperately hard and needy.

He bites Hannibal's lip, which makes Hannibal growl and shove Will, forcing him down onto the embankment of the gully. 

"Please, Hannibal, I need --"

"And I'm going to give it to you." He had one hand on Will's throat, his long fingers squeezing, but only a little. He takes Will's mouth again, forcing his jaw wide, as his free hand finds the fly of Will's jeans. Will bucks wildly, knowing it makes the process more difficult, but unable to help himself.  
Hannibal frees Will's erection, shoving the bunched fabric of jeans and boxers away. Hannibal presses sucking kisses along the line of Will's neck, pulling the hem of his shirt up so he can move his attentions to belly and hip. Will squirms and writhes, every inch of his skin tingling and hungry. 

When Hannibal takes Will's cock in his mouth, the world goes white hot, and Will's entire consciousness is reduced to that point of contact. Hannibal is thorough and enthusiastic, bordering on rough, keeping Will on the knife's edge between pain and pleasure. Will cries out when he comes, a raw and visceral cry, as though he is being murdered. 

Hannibal swallows and nurses Will through the aftershock until Will winces, suddenly oversensitive. Will sits up and grabs his collar, pulling Hannibal in for another kiss. He can taste his own come, and blood and grit on Hannibal's tongue. Hannibal breaks the kiss after moment. 

"Our work isn't done," he chides gently. 

Will cups between Hannibal's legs, rubbing his thumb along Hannibal erection. "But don't you want to --"

"Oh yes, I do," Hannibal says. "But I'm going to fuck you properly, Will. In a bed, with all the niceties. The ground is too hard on my knees. Fucking _al fresco_ is a younger man's game." 

Will zips himself up and straightens his clothes as best he can. The blood is drying into a sticky mess, and he's not looking forward to the hike back to the car. He watches as Hannibal dons surgical gloves and makes an incision below Dale's ribs, reaching inside his chest cavity to remove the heart. He places it in a Ziploc bag. 

Will cuts a lock of blood-soaked hair from the back of Dale's neck and tucks it away. They leave the body where it is. Scavengers will take care of it soon enough. 

The hike back isn't as bad as he fears. They make much better time when they don't have to be careful about noise and aren't dogging the slow steps of a wounded man. 

At the truck, Hannibal makes him strip, removing every article of clothing and depositing it in a garbage bag. Will uses baby wipes to scrub the worst of the blood off his hands and face, before quickly changing into the fresh clothes they brought. Hannibal stashes the heart in the little Coleman cooler Will normally uses for trout. 

Hannibal has somehow kept himself quite tidy, only daubing at a spot of blood on his wrist. He spreads towels on the seat and floor of the truck cab and oversees Will getting in.

"Don't touch anything that isn't a towel, Will," he says, as Will is about to place fingers on the dashboard. Will snatches his hand back guiltily. "Now, just sit there and touch nothing."

Will can't help but feel sleepy on the way back, as exhaustion replaces adrenaline, though he tries to stifle his yawns. Hannibal touches his shoulder, and he realizes they're home. 

"Come along, Will, I can't carry you." 

Will leans over, letting himself collapse against Hannibal, burying his nose in the collar of his shirt. That's nice and comfortable. "Sure you can."

Hannibal makes an amused noise at the back of his throat. "Perhaps I can, but I'm not going to." He gets out of the truck, and Will half falls out after him. Hannibal steers him up the driveway and into the house.  

Will tries to make a beeline for the bed, but Hannibal catches him and makes him go stand in the bathtub instead. And again everything Will is wearing goes in a black trash bag. 

Hannibal turns on the water, and Will yelps as the cold water hits him. 

"You are cruel," he mutters.

"You've known this about me for a long time." Hannibal watches him impassively. "But you clearly cannot be trusted not to track your victim's blood all over your house. You worked for the FBI, Will. You should know about DNA." 

The water is finally, finally warming up. Little rusty rivulets are winding down Will's legs. A patina of blood reveals the grooves of his fingerprints and then is washed away. Hannibal has taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He's armed himself with a wash cloth, which he then applies with excessive vigor to Will's tender flesh. 

"I can do this, really," Will protests, and makes to grab it from Hannibal's hand, but Hannibal easily evades him. He insists on shampooing Will's hair, working the lather into his scalp, and then tipping his head back to carefully rinse the suds away from his eyes. He produces a fingernail brush and gently scrubs the red away from under Will's nails. 

The water is getting cold by the time Hannibal is satisfied. Will is allowed to dry himself while Hannibal collects every discarded item of clothing and trashes it. 

Will leaves the towel on the floor, ignoring Hannibal's disapproving tut, and collapses on the bed. He's asleep almost instantly. 

\-----

_The water closes over his head, enveloping him in frigid darkness. He struggles to swim, his heaving clothes dragging through the water like an anchor. He's disoriented, suddenly unsure if he's swimming upward or downward. His lungs burn, and the ache spreads along his arms and legs, fading to numbness in the icy water. Panic grips him and he thrashes wildly, until his strength is almost gone._

_He is drowning._

_He is going to die._

_He understands this with instant and absolute clarity. There is nothing he can do. With that, peace washes over him. He doesn't have to fight, not anymore. He accepts this, and quits trying to swim, letting himself drift on the current. Relieved, he exhales the last of his breath. Seawater fills his lungs. He dies._

\-----

Will wakes up. Sunlight streams in through the window, almost painfully bright on the white sheets. He stretches, easing the stiffness in his shoulders and back. Hannibal sleeps on the bed next to him, his hair in his eyes.

Will goes to the bathroom, brushes the sour taste out of his mouth, splashes cold water on his face. The bathroom stinks of bleach, and Will knows that if they brought a black light in, they wouldn't find a trace of blood. 

He feels the same. He'd wondered if committing murder would make him feel different, wracked with guilt or left with a new insatiable bloodlust, but he doesn't feel like anything but himself. He's glad Dale is dead, feels the satisfaction that comes with a job well done. 

He returns to bed as Hannibal is stirring. He is wearing a set of dark blue pajamas with white trim. 

"Did you sleep well?" he asks, as Will slips back under the sheet. 

"Yes," Will says, settling on his stomach, chin resting on his folded arms. "What time did you come to bed? The bathroom has never been so clean."

"I tidied a bit, yes. I hate to leave things half done."  Hannibal reaches out to brush the backs of his fingers against Will's shoulder. The touch is light, almost experimental. His gaze travels down the length of Will's body, before returning to his face. His hand brushes down Will's side, a feather light touch following the same path his eyes just had. 

Hannibal swallows, and then says quietly, "I have wanted you since the day we met, Will Graham." 

"Now you have me," Will replies, arching his back into Hannibal's touch. "You'll probably tire of me once the novelty has worn off."

"Never," Hannibal says, and it's a promise. His fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of Will's neck, holding him as Hannibal leans in to kiss him. The kiss starts soft, a press of Hannibal's lips against his, but quickly becomes demanding as Hannibal presses harder, his tongue demanding entry. Will yields, letting his arm come up to wrap around Hannibal's waist, his hand slipping up under the hem of the blue pajama top. Hannibal rolls him over, settling his weight on top of Will. 

Will wraps his legs around Hannibal, fumbling to undo the buttons on Hannibal's pajama top, pushing it off his shoulders. They have to break the kiss to disentangle Hannibal's wrists from the cloth and Hannibal growls in annoyance. Will tugs on the drawstring of Hannibal's pajama bottoms, loosening them so they sag low on his hips, revealing a sliver of dark brown hair. Will palms Hannibal's erection through the fabric, rewarded with the way Hannibal's breath hitches and he bares his teeth. 

"May I fuck you, Will?" Hannibal asks, polite, if a little breathy. 

"Be my guest," Will replies, considerably less composed. 

Hannibal rises quickly, sliding off of Will. He goes to his suitcase and pulls out a small bag. He sets this on the bed and then steps out of his pajama bottoms. Will drinks in the sight of a naked Hannibal, considering how the reality compares with what Will has imagined. Hannibal's body is still lean and muscled, though softened by middle age and battered by a lifetime of violence. Soft, mostly grey hair thatches his chest and leads down in a fine line to his groin and thighs. His cock is swelling but not fully erect. 

Hannibal notices Will's regard, looking amused. "Shall I strike a pose?"

"You frequently do," Will replies, with a smile of his own. He crooks his finger in a beckoning gesture, and Hannibal saunters over and leans over to kiss Will. Hannibal's stubble is rough against Will's lips. 

"Come, roll over for me," Hannibal says. Will complies and Hannibal fusses over adjusting his limbs, putting pillows under Will's hips so his buttocks are angled upward. It's a ridiculous position, and Will turns his face away so Hannibal can't see. "Have you ever slept with a man before?"

"Yes," Will says. 

"And?"

"A lot of alcohol was involved. I mean, it was okay, but I didn't feel the need to repeat the experiment," Will says, a prickle of old embarrassment running through him. 

"I see," Hannibal says. "I won't hurt you."

Will huffs a sarcastic laugh. "You're a sadist."

"Yes, but not a sexual sadist," Hannibal says primly. He runs a hand up Will's back, kneading the flesh. 

Will groans softly as Hannibal's thumb digs into tight muscle. "Small mercies." 

"Look at me, Will," Hannibal says. He repeats the order when Will hesitates. "Look at me."

Will twists to look at Hannibal, the nerves seeming to writhe and coalesce into a knot at the pit of his stomach. Hannibal's expression is warm and searching. He takes Will's chin in his palm. 

"I don't require this," he says after a beat. "My sins are many, but they don't include rape." 

Hannibal's skin feels hot against his, and Will leans into the touch. "I'm here willingly. Just feeling a little anxious and ... exposed."

Hannibal's hand drops away as he considers this. "Anxiety is the fear of uncertain outcome. What outcome do you fear?"

"This is really a bad time to shrink my head, Hannibal. Really. Please just get on with it." Will waves a couple of fingers in the air in a hurry-up motion. 

"As you wish."

Hannibal situates himself so that he's on his side next to Will, curled up around him. For awhile, he does nothing but stroke slowly up and down Will's back. Will finds himself relaxing, growing sleepy even, under the hypnotic rhythm of Hannibal's caress. He's beginning to wonder if that's all Hannibal's going to do after all, when Hannibal's touch wanders lower, tracing over Will's buttocks, leaving goosebumps in his wake. He shifts, so he can run his hands down the backs of Will's thighs, incrementally moving inward.

Will is no longer sleepy. Hannibal's touch is still light but more insistent, as he teases along the juncture of Will's thighs. Will shifts involuntarily, bucking into the contact. There's a small interruption as Hannibal retrieves lubricant and a condom from the travel bag. He sets the condom aside, and pours a generous measure of lube out onto his fingers. Will jumps a little as Hannibal's fingers graze the sensitive skin of his hole, and he catches his breath at the intimacy. Hannibal toys with him, teasing. Slowly, cautiously, Hannibal slides one well-lubed finger into him. He works Will from the inside, careful and exploratory. It's a strange sensation, but not uncomfortable. Will's consciousness seems to contract to his breathing and the feel of Hannibal inside him. 

This has never really been his thing, been something he's fantasized about. But it's the emotional, rather than the physical sensation, which threatens to overwhelm him. His relationships had always been about avoiding intimacy, keeping his partner away from that darkness of his being. If he'd allowed this, what would have been next? But Hannibal already knows him, knows every depraved thought, every wicked impulse. There was nothing Will had left to hide, nowhere he _could_ hide if he wanted to. It was a raw, disorienting feeling, as though he was in a free fall -- there was nothing to cling to but Hannibal. 

"Are you all right, Will?" Hannibal asks, his voice a rumble.. He adds a second finger to the first, brushing something inside Will which sends a frisson of electricity through his gut. 

"I ... uh, yes. I'm good," Will says, struggling to be coherent. Hannibal presses soft, sucking kisses on the small of Will's back. 

Hannibal slips his fingers free, and Will can't quite suppress a whimper. He can hear Hannibal tear open a condom wrapper, before he moves to settle between Will's thighs. He applies more lube, which runs down the back of Will's balls and thighs. Will makes a conscious effort to relax, to calm his racing heart, as Hannibal takes him. Hannibal eases himself in, with what seems to be infinite patience. The stretch is uncomfortable, but never quite passes the threshold into pain. Once sheathed, Hannibal takes several long breaths, sighing into Will's ear. 

He starts to move, just a small shift of his weight, so that he pulls out a fraction of an inch, before settling back in. He does it again, each thrust slow, and small and increasingly maddening as Will adjusts and then suddenly wants more. Will rocks in counterpoint to Hannibal, so that the thrust is deeper, more emphatic. 

"Patience," Hannibal says, gripping Will's hip tightly. 

"Dr. Lecter," Will says, keeping his voice even as if they were merely having tea. "If I didn't know better, I'd be tempted to call you a tease."

"A tease am I?" Hannibal replies, and jerks his hips sending a zing of pleasure through Will. "Can't have you thinking that."

They rhythm of his thrusting builds inexorably in speed and depth. Will braces himself up on his forearms, pushing himself back to meet Hannibal. His erection rubs against the pillow under his hips, the friction maddeningly insufficient. 

Hannibal gasps when he comes, in sudden jerky thrusts before going boneless, his full body weight pressing Will down into the mattress. They lay like that for several minutes, neither moving, until finally Hannibal gingerly extracts himself, rolling onto his back and removing the condom. 

Will eases onto his side. The sheets are a disaster and there is a sizable wet-spot. He hasn't come, and his cock is eager for attention. He doesn't have to say anything, Hannibal doesn't make him ask. He just slides down, bows his head and takes Will in his mouth. Will groans involuntarily, and spreads his legs so that Hannibal can slip fingers back into him. The combined sensation of fingers and mouth is overwhelming, and it pushes Will over the edge. His orgasm hits him hard, pulses through his entire body like a wave, as if every nerve is electrified. It leaves him gasping for breath. 

Will zones out, his vision unfocused, vaguely aware of Hannibal shifting so that they are eye to eye. He's kissing the side of his neck and face, brushing the hair out of Will's eyes with gentle fingers. 

"You have a very unique flavor," Hannibal says. Will hears the words, but his addled brain can't quite resolve them into meaning. "Bitterness, almost like quinine, but balanced with a note of sweetness." 

Will stares at the ceiling, enjoying the momentary lapse in existence. All too soon, he comes back to himself. Hannibal is watching him, and Will can feel the affection and pride and hope radiating off him like heat. 

"I ... _see_ you," Will says, and his voice sounds groggy to his own ears. 

Hannibal smiles, wide enough for a flash of teeth. "I know you do."

"The boundaries between us continue to blur and become extraneous. They will not persist much longer...evaporating like a puddle on a hot day." Will swallows with difficulty; his throat is dry. "Have you come to a decision?" 

"Regarding your offer?" 

Will nods.

Hannibal draws a deep breath and releases it slowly. "It seems I have no choice but to accept. But there is a condition."

"Let's hear it," Will says, unsurprised. 

"I have a number of ... appointments which have already been scheduled. I assume none of them will meet with your approval, but I can't break a promise."

Will considers. He has a good idea of some of the people on Hannibal's list. Alana has been in hiding since Hannibal escaped. The thought of her death is painful. But she's clever and has the money and will to make killing her a challenge. He wonders who else is on the list, but decides not to ask. 

"Okay," he says. "Anyone to whom you've made an explicit promise is grandfathered in." 

"Very generous of you, Will." Hannibal leans over to kiss Will, running a hand up Will's sternum to settle just below his collarbone. "Then we have a deal." He taps two fingers against Will's ribs. "This heart belongs to me now. You may keep it for me, but one day, Will, I am going to take it back."

"Oh, yes," Will breathes, and kisses him.

\-----

Will spends the rest of the morning packing the few things he wants to take with him. He zips up his duffle bag and goes to his desk to find an index card. He uses packing tape to laminate the lock of Dales' hair to the back.  On the front he writes: 

_Dale Curtis_  
October 25, 2015  
Bighorn National Park, near the SW switchback trail  
Cruelty to animals 

"Dear-heart, are you ready to go?" Hannibal appears in the doorway. He's wearing an umber suit with a subtle windowpane check, and lavender shirt and tie. His pocket square is yellow. "We need to leave soon to drop the car off before our flight."

Will looks up and smiles. "Yes, I'm ready." He stands and slings his bag over his shoulder, and holds the card out for Hannibal's inspection. "Baby's first trophy."  

Hannibal looks it over, and the corner of his mouth quirks up ever so slightly. "Your first. I hope it won't be your last."

Will slips the card into the duffle and walks out the door. "No. It won't be."

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there. I'm new to this fandom and, regardless of the fandom I'm in, I'm always desperate for betas and/or friends. If you enjoyed this production, please consider volunteering in either capacity. I'm rubberbuttonlurks on Tumblr, and my email is rb.lurks@gmail.com. Thank you.


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